


pretty boy

by cestlestialbeings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (?), Anal Sex, Caretaker Sam Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Prostitute Dean Winchester, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Spit As Lube, TAGS FOR CHAPTER 2/CODA:, Victim Dean Winchester, Whipping, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-24 17:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30075675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cestlestialbeings/pseuds/cestlestialbeings
Summary: One of Dean’s clients gets rough. Really, really rough.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by [lamprophony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamprophony/pseuds/lamprophony), but any errors you see are my own. If you like this fic, go check out some of theirs as well!

Dean hates it, but he’s gotten good at it, too. Flirting with men willing to pay for his services. Playing coy, making good use of his pretty features, his long eyelashes and full lips and attentive green eyes.

Tonight he’s picked up a guy at the tail end of his thirties, dressed in a business suit and clearly strong and built under his slightly-too-tight clothes. Some high-powered businessman with a level of arrogance to match.

The man pays for a cheap room at a scummy hourly motel, guiding Dean towards the room with his hand pressed against the small of Dean’s back. It makes his skin crawl, but he ignores the feeling. 

The man unlocks the door and lets Dean in first. As soon as the door clicks shut, he says, “Clothes off. Now.”

Dean strips right away, stopping when he’s down to his boxers.

“Clothes _off_ ,” the man states again, annoyed.

Dean takes a deep breath and drops his boxers reluctantly. He feels goosebumps rise as his skin makes contact with the cool air. The man takes him in, smiling at what he sees. Dean used to like his body—lean muscle under a layer of softness, smooth skin marred only by a few scars, cock a decent heft he was satisfied with. But men have looked at him like this enough that he’s disgusted with his body now. It feels like it’s not his, like it’s just an object. Something dirty, only good for sex.

The man undresses too. Shoes off, jacket, tie, shirt, belt, pants. He drops all his clothes in a messy pile on the floor, then slips out of his underwear. He’s hard, and he’s big, and Dean swallows nervously when he sees the man’s cock. 

The man approaches Dean. He cups Dean’s balls in his hands, rubbing them with his thumb, and then works his hand up to stroke Dean’s soft dick. His eyes are fixed on Dean’s face, watching every reaction Dean has—the sharp breaths, the reddening cheeks, the teeth digging into Dean’s lower lip. Dean’s starting to get hard—he desperately doesn’t want to be, doesn’t want this man to get the satisfaction of turning him on, but his body is making its own decisions.

“You like this, huh?” the man says, voice low. “Filthy whore.”

Tears prickle at the back of Dean’s eyes. _Whore_. It’s what he is, he’s been called it a dozen times before, but it’s a word that bitterly reminds him of the demeaning things he does to earn cash.

“Hey. Look at me,” the man says. He turns Dean’s chin to look up at him. The man licks his lips and Dean’s eyes flicker up to meet the man’s gaze. It takes everything in him not to look away, but the man’s expression makes it clear that nothing good will happen if he does.

The man leans down and kisses Dean, and Dean lets him. The man tastes like cigarettes and he’s dominant and pushy, so Dean just lets him take the lead, lets him push his thick tongue into Dean’s mouth, lets the man claim him. For now. 

The man nods towards the bed. “Lay down on your stomach,” he says, and Dean obeys. He crawls onto the covers and lays down, his dick hard and pressed against his belly.

After a moment, the man climbs onto the bed and straddles Dean’s thighs. He slaps Dean’s ass hard enough to make him wince, and then roughly pulls both of Dean’s hands behind his back. Dean tries to yank his arms away—this isn’t how it’s supposed to go—but the man’s hands are like iron around his wrists.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks, twisting to look back at the man. The man shifts his grip so he’s holding both of Dean’s hands in one of his own and wraps his necktie around Dean’s wrists. “Hey, no,” Dean says, when he sees what’s going on. He tries to tug his hands away again, but between the awkward angle and the man’s firm grip, he can’t budge.

“Relax,” the man says. “You’ll like it.” He leans down and presses a kiss to the side of Dean’s neck. Dean jerks away.

“Let me go,” Dean says, pulling again at the restraints, trying to keep the calm in his voice, to give the impression that he’s still in control. Turning tricks already makes him feel helpless, but being tied up, too? “This isn’t part of the gig. I don’t do this.”

“You do now.” He grabs something out of Dean’s view. Dean strains to hear what the man is reaching for, and hears only the soft clink of metal and the scratch of leather on leather. The man adjusts himself so he’s off Dean, but keeps him pinned down with a knee resting on Dean’s back. “I have something else I think you’ll like,” the man says. Dean manages to turn his head just enough to see the man has his belt folded in half in his hands. 

Dean struggles again, but the man has him held completely immobile. “Let me go, you fucking asshole!”

“Jesus Christ, shut up,” the guy says. The belt hits Dean’s ass, hard, and he gasps out in pain. The belt comes down again and again, and tears swell in Dean’s eyes from the stinging pain. _I’m not going to beg_ , he thinks. _I’m not going to beg._

“You like that, huh?” the guy whispers in Dean’s ear while he continues hitting him with his belt, his voice hoarse. Dean squeezes his eyes shut. _Slap._ His entire ass is stinging, and he’s sure there are angry red welts there, but the man doesn’t stop. _Slap._ “Your daddy do this to you when you were a kid?” _Slap_. “I bet your old man fucked you, too. Used you like I’m going to.” _Slap._ “No wonder you’re hooking now.”

That’s enough. Dean uses all his strength to push the man off him, just barely succeeds. He rolls to the side and bites the man’s leg as hard as he can, the only thing he can think to do with his hands bound behind his back like they are.

The man yells and pulls back for a second, but he recovers fast and slams his fist into Dean’s face. “Fucking bitch!” he says. The world goes blurry for a moment, everything seeming unclear—everything except the pain in Dean’s jaw. By the time he recovers, the man has him back on his stomach, held firmly in place. His thighs are on either side of Dean’s, his hands pushing down on Dean’s back, so Dean can’t even budge.

“I’m going to make you regret this,” Dean says, voice cold.

The man just laughs. “Yeah, I’m sure you will.”

The man pulls apart Dean’s ass cheeks and spits. Cool saliva drips into the crack.

“I swear to god...” Dean growls, struggling futilely.

The man ignores him. He spits again and lines his dick up with Dean’s hole.

Dean drops his forehead against the bed. This guy is going in with no prep and no actual lube, and Dean knows that this is going to hurt, bad. “I’ll fucking kill you,” Dean spits out. “You disgusting freak.”

“Mm.” The man pushes in, just the tip, and Dean cries out. He’s barely in, but the stretch still burns. “I want to hear you beg,” the man says.

“No,” Dean says, breathing hard. He can handle this. He can.

“Beg me to stop,” the man says, pushing in another inch.

Dean grits his teeth, trying to avoid crying out again. _“No_ ,” he says again.

“Come on, baby, just a little,” the man says, running a hand so softly against Dean’s side that it makes him shiver.

Dean shakes his head and the man sighs, then pushes the rest of the way in, all the way to the hilt. Dean struggles again, his asshole automatically clenching around the dick inside him even though it makes it hurt worse, his hands behind his back scrabbling but failing to find purchase.

“How does that feel?” the man asks. “You like it?” He pulls out slightly and pounds back in.

Dean lets out a pathetic sob. He thought he could take it, but it’s too much. “Stop,” he says. “Please, stop it.”

“Now you’re getting it,” the guy says. He moves slow, out and in, out and in.

Dean gasps in short, stunned breaths, barely able to get out the words. “Please,” he says softly. “Please.”

“What did you say?” the man asks.

“Please.” Voice a little stronger now, just enough for the man to hear his pleas. “Please, I’m sorry, just get off of me, just stop. _Please._ ”

The man laughs. “That’s what I like to hear.” And then he really starts to move, rocking in and out of Dean. Dean thought it had hurt before, but the dry skin tugging at his asshole and the width and length of the cock pressing up inside him are unbearable. “This good enough, baby? You want more?” the man asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He keeps thrusting in, harder and faster.

Dean buries his face in the comforter while he sobs, the sounds coming out muffled and miserable. The man grabs Dean by the hair and yanks his head back. “Don’t be shy, sweetheart. Let me hear you scream.”

Dean lets out a cry with each thrust, fast, fast, fast, and then… the man stops as he empties himself inside Dean. He lets out a long, satisfied groan and lets go of Dean’s hair, lets Dean’s head drop back onto the bed. The man pulls out, slow and tortuous, and then flops onto his back next to Dean.

Dean rolls onto his side away from the man, hurting on every part of his body and feeling dazed. He doesn’t have anything to say. He doesn’t have the energy to be angry. 

He feels the man shift behind him and two fingers slide into his hole, stroking gently inside. He lets out a choked breath.

“Damn, baby, you’re a good lay.” He pulls out his cum-covered fingers and wipes them on Dean’s cheek. Dean flinches. The man leans over and kisses Dean’s neck one more time and then rolls out of bed. Dean is still hurting, still too sore to move, so he can only watch as the man cleans himself up and gets dressed again.

The man bends down and rifles through the pockets of Dean’s jeans, pulling out Dean’s wallet. He opens it up, briefly glances at the license. He whistles. “Sixteen. Wow.” He smiles, cold and sadistic. “Thanks, ‘Dean.’” Then he pulls all the cash out of the wallet—the two hundred he’d given Dean beforehand, plus the extra hundred Dean had had on him—and tucks it into his own wallet. Dean opens his mouth to protest—he needs that money, he needs to pay rent and buy food and next week is Sammy’s birthday, he’d been so excited to finally have enough cash to get him something _good_ for once—but he doesn’t want to draw the man’s attention back to him. He just wants him to leave.

So he stays quiet. 

His breath catches when the man approaches him again, but he just bends over to undo the tie restraining Dean’s wrists. He slaps Dean’s already-sore ass one more time on his way out. “Thanks for the good time, kid,” he says with a wink, and then slips out the door.

Dean waits a moment before he curls up into a ball and waits for the pain to fade, tears silently running down his face even as his expression is blank, even as he feels numb and empty.


	2. Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coda. The aftermath; and Sam helps Dean recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to lamprophony for beta reading <3

As soon as he’s able to, Dean drags himself to the bathroom. He turns around in a circle to look at the damage in the mirror. Purple near his eye and across his cheek where the man hit him; bruises in their early stages on his arms and back where the man’s fingers had dug in or gripped too tight; marks around his wrists where the tie was wrapped too tight; red welts across his ass.

Dean turns shower on to as hot as he can stand and climbs in to sit in the tub. He hisses as his sore ass touches the bottom of the tub, so instead of sitting, he curls up on his side, letting the hot water fall all over his body. The shower clearly hasn’t been cleaned in a while—there’s grime along the bottom of the tub—but he’s too tired to care. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the steady patter of water.

It must be fifteen or twenty minutes before he forces himself to get up. He needs to get back to the apartment they’re staying in for now. Sam will start to wonder where he is soon.

Dean doesn’t feel even close to clean enough, but he gingerly climbs back into his clothes, still hurting all over his body. The only way he’s getting back to the apartment is by walking the two miles there. Not usually a problem if things go as planned, but it’s going to be agonizing getting back when it hurts every part of him to move, his asshole still tender and sore. It’s going to make the long walk almost unbearable.

And it does hurt, a lot. He walks along the shoulder of the road back to the apartment, jumping a little any time a car passes him. His rational brain tells him that the chances someone will hurt him again tonight are slim to none, but he still feels fear all the way down to his bones. What if he runs across the man again?

The entire walk back, he worries about what he’s going to tell Sam. Should he tell him the truth? No—he can’t let Sam see him that way. As someone who lets himself get fucked for money. As a victim, overpowered by some prissy guy in a suit. And he can’t put something that heavy on Sam’s shoulders. The knowledge that Dean had been paying for their cost of living for the past year by degrading himself. And how long would it be until Sam told Dad? 

Dean gets back to the apartment and unlocks the door. At least the guy had taken only his cash, and nothing else. At least he has his key, his license, his wallet. It’s the small things, he thinks, without humor.

Sam’s reading a book on the couch when Dean walks in, but he drops it and jumps to his feet as soon as Dean is through the door.

“Where the hell have you been?” Sam asks.

“Out,” Dean says. He starts to push past Sam. He just wants to go to bed and let himself slip unconscious, so this shitty day can be over.

Sam steps back in his way. “What happened to your face?”

Dean reaches up and touches the tender skin where the bruise is getting darker. “Got into a fight.”

Sam sighs. “Come on, Dean. You know better than that.” 

“Look, Sam, I’m really not up for this tonight, okay?”

Sam looks like he’s going to protest, but Dean shoves past him a little too roughly on his way to his room. He slams the door behind himself and strips down in the dark to his t-shirt and boxers. He has trouble falling asleep, from the pain, and from the memories going through his head again and again and again… But eventually sleep overtakes him.

====

He wakes up to a hand shaking his shoulder.

“Dean!” 

Dean groans and rolls over, wincing at the aches in his body. “What?” He slowly blinks his eyes open. Light is streaming through the window, stopping just short of shining directly into his eyes. He blinks a few more times from the brightness and then looks up at Sam. 

Sam’s eyes are wide and shocked, his eyes skimming over Dean’s bare arms. “What the hell happened to you?” 

Dean hadn’t been thinking when he’d taken off a layer before bed. Besides the bruise on his face, now Sam can see the ones on his arms, too—the purplish-red around his wrists and the splotches of darkness from the man’s fingers.

Dean snatches his overshirt off the floor and pulls it on. “I told you. I was in a fight.”

“That’s not what bruises from fights look like,” Sam says.

“Yeah, and who are you? Evander Holyfield?” Dean buttons up his shirt.

“I’ve seen you and Dad come home from enough hunts to know,” Sam says.

“Okay, fine. I lied. It’s just something I’ll tell you about when you’re older, okay?” He gives Sam his best attempt at a mischievous smile.

“I’ve seen you come home from sleeping with girls and you never look like this either,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows in challenge. He’s in that phase of adolescence where he thinks everything is his business but this is the _worst_ time for him to be questioning Dean about what he’d been up to. “Maybe I should tell Dad…”

“No!” Dean says, panic running through him. What would Dad say, what would Dad do, if he found out that Dean had put himself into the type of situation where he could get hurt? If he found out about the kind of thing Dean did regularly to make ends meet? “Don’t tell Dad,” Dean says, and he hates how pathetically pleading his voice is. “Please don’t tell him.”

“If you tell me what happened, I won’t have to.”

“I was raped, okay?” Dean says, harsh and frustrated, and it hurts, saying it out loud. He knew what happened to him had been a violation, but now that he’s finally put a name to it, it feels worse. Dean takes a deep breath. Sam’s twelve, so Dean’s not sure if he’s heard of this stuff before. “Do you know what that means?”

Sam nods, eyes huge. “You…?”

Dean looks away.

“But where… Who… How…?” He can’t seem to get his words straight.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean says softly.

“I just don’t understand how it could’ve happened,” Sam says, and he sounds so legitimately baffled that Dean wants to punch Sam, or die, or both. Sam, having the idolized image of his tough big brother totally shattered by finding out how he’s not so strong after all. Dean is glad, at least, that he’s able to avoid telling Sam about the prostitution.

Dean thinks about telling him a little more about what had happened. Just enough so that Sam won’t think Dean is as weak and pathetic as he’s feeling. But as soon as he opens his mouth to say something, the words don’t come out. “I can’t, Sammy,” he says, and his voice cracks. “I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry.”

It’s humiliating to watch Sam’s face dissolve into gentle compassion. “Okay,” he says. He takes a deep breath, finally, _finally_ getting it. Finally understanding that he has to drop it. “Okay. Sorry.”

Sam leaves, and Dean lies back down, staring at the ceiling through blurry tears. He’s going to stay in bed the rest of the day because he can’t even think about doing anything productive—even getting out of bed seems like an unbearably difficult task—but he knows tomorrow he’ll have to get back to taking care of things. Finding a way to make up for the $300 he lost. Hustling pool or taking a few small jobs or going back out to turn more tricks. The thought makes him feel sick. 

Sam comes back in after fifteen minutes with his arms full. He sets it all down on the bed and nightstand—a couple Ziploc bags filled with ice, a glass of water, a plate of hot dogs, a bottle of pills. Sam taps the bottle. “This is the good stuff. Dad’s not as good at hiding stuff as he thinks he is,” Sam says with a grin, and then he’s gone again and back in a minute, hauling in the TV and VCR to set up on the dresser across from the bed.

Dean feels guilty as he sits up, swallows a couple of the pills and sets the ice packs on the worst of his bruises. He’s supposed to take care of Sam. That’s it, that’s his only job, the only thing Dad wants him to do. And somehow Dean's fucked up enough that it’s turned around, that Sam is the one taking care of his big brother.

Sam puts on a spaghetti Western, one of Dean’s favorites, and climbs onto the bed next to Dean. They split the hot dogs and watch TV and thank _god_ the meds are kicking in hard, everything starting to become a little less painful and a little fuzzier and a little better.

Until out of nowhere he remembers—the pain, the crying, the harsh words. _Don’t be shy, sweetheart. Let me hear you scream._

He feels the wet on his cheeks and tries to wipe them away before Sam sees, but the tears keep coming. The emotions are still there but muted, the humiliation and helplessness and fear—but mostly he just feels an overwhelming numbness as the scene replays in his mind.

“Dean?” he hears. “Dean.” A hand waving in front of his face. “Earth to Dean.”

He blinks a few times and looks down at Sam, his thoughts fading back into the present. “Yeah?” 

“I was saying that this scene is evidence that Clint Eastwood is overrated.”

Dean’s back enough that he laughs, because he knows exactly what Sam is trying to do. “You’re an idiot, Sam,” he says, and launches into a long explanation on how wrong Sam is. He’s glad Sam is distracting him from his memories. He’s not thinking about last night. He still feels numb, still is hurting, but he’s somehow having fun, too. 

When the end credits start playing, Sam rests his head on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey, Dean?” he says.

“Hm.”

“I’m really glad you’re okay.”

Dean’s not, but he gets what Sam’s trying to say. “Thanks, kiddo,” Dean says. He smiles down at Sam and ruffles his hair. He’s so grateful he has someone who cares about him so much. He’s so grateful it’s Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and concrit welcome!


End file.
